Echoes of Betrayal (40 page)

“And will you ask him?”

“Yes.”

“It is our way to seal acquaintance by taste, tongue to tongue,” the man said. “And for that I must be in my own shape, and you must touch your tongue to mine. Stand there, and I will change.”

The dark outline of a man vanished, and in its place what seemed a huge dragon-shaped heap of burning coals and embers flickering in all the colors of fire grew larger and larger. Finally one line of red ran out toward him. “Kneel down” the dragon said, a voice that rang in his head more than his ears. “And taste my essence.”

Heat beat against Stammel’s face, heat that brought tears to his sightless eyes, sweat to his face, his neck, even his back. Fear shook him as a dog shakes a rat, but he knelt and opened his mouth and put out his tongue.

It was not hot; it was not cold. It tasted of salt and iron, of blood, in fact. Then the heat withdrew, and he stood up again. The shape of fire shifted, contracted, and once more had the shape of a man, but now Stammel could think of it as nothing but dragon.

“I will guide you to your commander,” the dragon said. “Put out your hand.”

Stammel did so and touched a shoulder, the cloth familiar to his fingers. Together they walked back to the stronghold; together they came through the gate. Stammel heard nothing in the forecourt but the sound of their four feet on the stones—no challenge of sentries, no voices, no pots banging in the kitchens, no sound from the horses. Silence like this, even past the turn of a winter’s night, was unknown, and yet it was silent.

“Your commander is in his office,” the dragon said. Their own footfalls on the stones of the courtyard made no sound; Stammel knew their way by the faint whiff of horses here, wash water there, an inexplicable sense of constriction that must be the archway between the outer and inner courts, and then the indoor smells and warmth that meant they were inside, and he could hear their footsteps on the stairs, along the upper hall, the snick of the door lock and the faint squeak of a hinge that needed oiling.

“Stammel,” Arcolin said. Stammel recognized relief in his voice, and hope.

“Sir,” Stammel said. He took a breath. “Sir, I want to leave the Company.”

“Stammel—”

“I cannot be what I was,” he said. “We both know that. This dragon tried but cannot restore my sight. I can’t—”

“But we still need you.”

“No, sir. You need a senior sergeant with eyes as well as ears. Dev’s good; promote him. It’s only come sooner than I thought, years back—everyone retires someday.”

“You’ll stay near—in Duke’s East, perhaps?”

“No, sir, not if you release me from my oath. I’ll go with this dragon, sir.”

“With the dragon!” Arcolin sounded angry. “Did you come here to steal my sergeant, then, instead of heal him?”

The room warmed noticeably; Stammel saw the fires stir inside the man’s shape. “No. I came to heal him if I could, but I cannot. You yourself told me about his talents, and I have need of an archer to help me with the dragonspawn. With his help, it may be I can prevent more damage to this land and the others.”

“But—but he can’t see.”

“He can see dragonfire,” the dragon said.

“Is this true, Stammel?” Arcolin asked.

“Yes. I see the shape of a man full of fire where he stands, and I saw his shape in fire when he changed.”

“And you truly wish to go?”

Stammel sighed. “If life was all wishes, sir, I’d have my real sight back and be the man I was. I’d have known Korryn for what he was and never signed him on, or never let him live, or struck him down, there in Vonja, before he could kill those guards or invade me. None of the bad would’ve happened. But that’s wishing, and it did happen. I can’t—I can’t be anything but what I am, sir, and that’s a soldier, and yet blind as I am now, I can’t be a soldier here. Eyes all around is what sergeants need, sir. The dragon’s offered me a way to do what I can do that doesn’t put risk on you and my—your—recruits.” Stammel swallowed, then went on. “Please, sir—my lord—this is best.”

“You could die.”

“All men die; we both know that.”

“I won’t take the protection of my name from you,” Arcolin said. “But I will send you, as on a secret mission, under command of this dragon, if you truly wish it. Will that do?”

The dragon stirred; Stammel perceived the man-shape extruding a long tongue, longer than human. The tongue curled back inside, and the voice came. “You are merely lending me your sergeant?”

“If your mission prospers and Stammel survives, will you then take responsibility for the rest of his life?” Arcolin asked. “
I
will do so. He has a home here, with friends, whenever he chooses it, and as my sworn man, anyone might help him find it should he go astray.”

“So it is care for him and not mistrust of me?”

“Yes.”

“Will that content you, Sergeant?” the dragon asked.

“Yes,” Stammel said. “Captain—my lord Arcolin—I thank you for your care, for your letting me go and your offer of shelter when I return. And you—I don’t know your name and ‘Dragon’ seems rude—”

“It is what I am,” the dragon said.

“I thank you for a task I can do.”

“Will you say goodbye to the others?” Arcolin asked.

“Better not,” the dragon said. “Explanations are tedious.”

“They must have some explanations,” Arcolin said. “They’re his friends; they need to know something …”

“Tell them you sent me to Vérella,” Stammel said, “to tell the king about the change in the border and possible danger. I am known there; I was at your investiture. It is a reason you might send me.”

“It is a good thought,” the dragon said, “as I must, in courtesy, meet your king, of whom I know nothing other than he is king. I mislike cities, but with this man I am less likely to provoke violence.”

“He is young,” Arcolin said. “Scarcely more than a youth, though he has survived threats and attacks. You will find him intelligent and courteous but wary.”

“Wise?”

“No wiser than any man of his years and not less, I would judge. Now, with turmoil in Pargun and the attack on Lyonya you tell me of, he will be more wary and perhaps quicker to judge.”

“Write your letter to your king, and I will take your sergeant with me there, before our other mission.”

Stammel heard the scratching of Arcolin’s pen, the crisp sound of the paper edges scraping as Arcolin rolled them tightly. He smelled the hot wax, heard it drip on the roll, heard Arcolin’s seal ring pressing
down, the faint huff of the message tube opening, the paper sliding in. And yet he heard without thinking of them, for his mind could think of nothing but the man-shaped flame beside him. What would it be like to be the man—the creature—for whom being filled with flame was natural? How could the dragon hold the shape of a man without the pain of burning?

“Did I look like that?” he asked when the chair scraped back and Arcolin, he knew, stood up.

“Like what?” Arcolin said.

“I don’t know what he—the dragon—looks like in man-shape,” Stammel said. “What my mind sees is a dark outline filled with flames. Did I look like that when I was burning?”

“No,” Arcolin said. “Not like that and not like the man I see here now—dark skin faintly patterned, golden eyes that seem to be reflecting flames. You were red, as if sunburned, the whites of your eyes red, the pupils red-clouded as with blood.”

“It is not the same fire,” the dragon said. “Mine is the fire of making; that was the fire of unmaking.”

“Unmaking?”

“Death, then, if you will. But we should depart.”

As if he had normal vision, Stammel could see in his mind Arcolin’s expression, that familiar mix of determination and uncertainty. He would never be what the Duke had been; somewhere in that steady, competent mind was a soft place, a weakness, that he’d never felt in Kieri Phelan. Yet Arcolin had never failed the Duke or his people.

“It’ll be fine, sir,” he said, as he’d said many times before, and knew that Arcolin would relax just that little bit. “It’s the right thing now.”

“Go well, Sergeant,” Arcolin said. “Here’s the letter.”

Stammel reached out; Arcolin put the message tube into his hand. Stammel tucked it into his belt pouch and saluted. The dragon’s arm nudged his; he laid his hand on it, and the dragon led him away downstairs, out into the chill, through it, out where he heard only the wind blowing across open ground. “I am changing,” the dragon said. Then the dragon’s tongue touched his legs, a warm, living presence.

“Stand on it,” the dragon said.

Stammel stepped up. The tongue now felt solid as a plank. He was
aware of movement without knowing how. To his surprise, his heart lifted. He still had adventure in his life—who else had been inside a dragon’s mouth? He staggered suddenly and felt himself rolling down a slope on something warm and soft; he landed at last in what felt like a pile of warm cushions.

“Sleep,” said the dragon. “I must fly.”

W
hen the dragon spat him out, a surprisingly dry and comfortable process, Stammel stepped off the dragon’s tongue onto snow.

“We must walk as men the rest of the way,” the dragon said. “We must appear as your count’s messengers to the king.”

Stammel said nothing. He could smell resinous pines and cedars in the wood around them, but he had no sense of direction, and if it was day, it was too cloudy to give him any hint of the sun’s direction.

“I could have flown to the palace roofs,” the dragon said, “but that might have caused some concerns.”

Stammel snorted. “Some concerns indeed. Don’t you have a name I can use? Or a title?”

The dragon hissed a little. “Should I take a human name, do you think?”

“If you cannot share yours.”

“Indeed I will not. Call me … call me Sir Camwyn then.” The dragon chuckled. “It is fitting that a dragon should be its own master.”

“What time is it?” Stammel asked.

“Are you hungry?” the dragon asked.

“No … but I would like to know if it is day or night.”

“Night, but soon dawn above thick clouds. We are walking south on a road toward Vérella.”

Day had come, though Stammel could not see it, when they were stopped by men on the road. Stammel assumed they were militia or city guards.

“Who are you, and what is your business?” one asked.

“Sergeant Stammel, come from the north with a letter for the king from Count Arcolin,” Stammel said.

“But you’re blind,” another one said.

“Indeed I am,” Stammel said. “And that is why the count sent this guide with me, Sir Camwyn.”

“He’s not wearing marks of rank,” the first one said. “How do we know—”

“He is known to Count Arcolin,” Stammel said.

“Have you been to Vérella before, sir?” the man asked the dragon.

“No,” the dragon said. “I came to Tsaia another way.”

“Well …” the guard said to Stammel. “If you vouch for him … We know about you.”

“I’m not sure I can find the palace entrance,” Stammel said. “When I went through with troops, we marched along the back walls. And Sir Camwyn, as he said, doesn’t know the way, either. Should I ask the guards at the gate or someone in the city?”

“At the gate. They’ll give you an escort. I can’t detach any of my unit, but the road’s clear enough from here in.”

It was a short walk to the gates; the guard officer there provided an escort, and shortly Stammel was speaking to the first of several palace officials—he had no idea what their titles meant—who were all reluctant to let the pair see the king. Stammel did not shift from his insistence that he himself must put Arcolin’s message into the king’s hand. He had worn no sword; they took his dagger and his saveblade and finally decided he was harmless enough. The dragon they would not permit.

“It is all right, Sergeant,” the dragon said. “I have brought you where your count wished, and I can wait.”

Stammel put his hand on the shoulder of someone who was wearing weapons—he could hear the sword’s scabbard brushing against the man’s breeches with every stride and feel under his fingers the edges of the baldric that held it. No doubt there was a dagger or two on his belt; no doubt the man walking behind them had weapons. He himself did not feel as naked as he’d feared.

“Bow when I do,” his leader said. “In normal case, you would bow a knee, but since you are blind—”

“Blind but not crippled,” Stammel said. “I can take a knee as well as anyone.”

“Then do so,” the man said. He stopped. “Here is the door; we will go in three steps or four; you will feel my shoulder dipping as I bow. Make your courtesy then.”

The door creaked just a little as it opened; warmer air spilled out to meet them, rich with the scent of cooked food. “Sergeant Stammel, sir king, with a message to hand from Count Arcolin.” Stammel’s leader stepped forward. Stammel could hear several people breathing in the room and a gulp as someone hurried to swallow. Someone else bit into something that sounded like apple, and the smell of apple touched his nose.

When the man beside him bowed, Stammel dropped to one knee, bowed deeper, and said, “My lord and king.”

Then he raised his head, pulled the message tube from his belt-pouch, and held it out. A hand brushed his in taking the tube. “Rise, Sergeant. Show him a seat, if you will.” Stammel had heard that voice once before; it was indeed the king. “You are welcome here; we had hoped to see your sight restored.”